First Love. Mrs. Loudon
this time expected in the village, who had received his early education at S—B—school, and who had been, for many years, the mate in mischief of Henry St. Aubin.
The young man, of whom we are speaking, was the only child of a lone woman who kept the bakehouse of the village. His father, whom he had never seen, had been, in the youthful days of his mother, a scholar lad. The mother was determined that her son should be, as his father had been, a gentleman! She devoted, therefore, the fruits of a life’s industry to educate him for the church. After such an exertion, however, she had no pocket-money left to give her darling, who, consequently, often wanted cash. He was selfish, and had no principles. His habits were low, yet, in their own petty way, expensive. His present return to the village was after a considerable absence. Henry hastened to the bakehouse at the moment of his arrival, and, taking him aside, asked him if he was yet ordained, “because,” continued Henry, without waiting for a reply, “if you are not, tell David you are, and pretend to marry me to Betsy. We’ll have rare fun and carousing at the wedding: and the next time my aunt fills my purse, I’ll go halves with you.”
Now, the young man was in orders already; but so good an offer as a carouse and even half a purse, was not to be cast away without consideration. Besides which, it might be ‘very convenient’ to have St. Aubin in his power; for though it was perfectly well known that Henry did not inherit any thing from his father, his future prospects from his aunt were equally well known not to be despicable; and, at any rate, she behaved so handsomely to him at present, that as a scholar-lad his purse was always tolerably well lined; it was not likely, therefore, that she would ever let him be without money, when he went into the world as a man. The conscientious young divine, accordingly, without more time for his calculations than whilst Henry spoke, told his friend that he was not yet ordained, and, at the same time, undertook that his mother should tell David (as well she might) that her son was in orders. “Indeed, for that matter,” he added, “it will be the safest way to make her think so herself.”
After this, it was easily arranged, with all parties, that Greyson (such was our hopeful churchman’s name) should perform the ceremony. It was to take place among the roofless ruins of S—B—Abbey, poor David having a prejudice in favour of his child being married in church, and the repaired part of the building, which is the present church, being of course locked. The little party, in contempt of canonical hours, left David’s house after midnight. They passed down the street, and all was silent. As they approached the little bridge, situated half-way between the village and the abbey, Betsy saw a man leaning over the battlements, seemingly looking on the water as it glided from beneath the one low arch. She was sure, doubtful as was the light, for the moon was much obscured, that the figure was that of the young farmer. When they came to the gate which divides the road and school-house from the wide-spread ruins, they found it fastened, and were obliged to get over the stile. When elevated on the upper step of this, Betsy gave one look towards the bridge. The figure had left its position there. She passed her eye along the road, and could still discern it following at some distance.
“Make haste!” whispered Henry, hurrying her down the steps rather roughly. “You’re not going to change your mind again, are you?” he added, sneeringly.
Betsy’s heart misgave her, and she answered, with a heavy sigh, “If I have changed it ance, Henry, it’s no you ’at sould reproach me!”
“Hoot! if it is such a sighing matter,” he replied, “don’t break your heart to oblige me.”
“Tack care yee dinna brack it, Henry, nor my honest fayther’s nowther,” was Betsy’s answer. Then, mentally she added, “There’s ane ’at must be bracken, and that’s enew.”
At this moment a shadow passed along a moonlit wall beside them, and sunk in a dark archway before them. They soon entered the same archway; proceeded along the flags in front of the great western entrance; mounted some steps; walked on the northern high gravelled terrace, some way; then, leaving it, climbed over graves, and stumbled over tombstones, till, descending a rugged path, among nettles and long grass, they entered a part of the ruin which was without any roof. The walls, however, still rose to their full original height, till the starry sky seemed a canopy that closed them in; while, through a row of long, narrow, well-preserved arches, the moonlight streamed with an adventitious brightness, borrowed from contrast with the dark shadows in every other part. The entrance of our party, however, seemed the signal for all that had been bright to disappear. The moon, which had struggled for some time with the vapours of a hazy night, almost at the instant dropped behind a range of thick clouds near the horizon. She set a few moments after, and the haze thickening to a mizzling rain, the very stars became extinguished. It was slowly, therefore, and with difficulty, that the feet of our wanderers now advanced to the further or eastern end, where the altar is said to have once stood.
Our reverend divine here took a small dark lantern from his breast, unfastened its door, and opened before it a pocket prayer-book. By this time the darkness of all around was total, and added much to the strange effect of the partial gleam that lit up the book, the one hand that held it, and a part only of the one arm, the back of the lantern itself throwing a powerful shadow on the rest of the figure; so that the waving hand seemed a floating vision unconnected with any form, and the voice that arose out of the darkness behind it, almost supernatural! At the moment of its first sound, which, after the silence that had preceded it, seemed to startle every thing, an owl on the top of the ruins screamed. Betsy shuddered: the owl fluttered downwards, fell, as it happened, actually on the lantern, and, striking it out of the hand that held it, extinguished its light; then, having panted a moment at the feet of the astounded group, rose, and screaming again, brushed by their faces. A minute after, its cry was heard repeated, but fainter from the distance, for it now came from the highest point of the steeple.
“It’s no to be, fayther!” said Betsy, in a low voice, “it’s no to be!”
“Hoot!” said Henry, gruffly.
Betsy felt her hand, on the other side, taken in one that seemed to tremble. She thought, at first, it was her father’s; but just then she heard his voice on the far side of Henry, saying to the clergyman, “What’s to be done noo?”
“He kens it off book,” said Henry.
Greyson, who had engaged to swear whatever Henry said, alleged that, while he held the book in his hand, and repeated the words, it was the same thing as if he read them. Accordingly, with particular solemnity of tone, as if to compensate for the want of other requisites, he recommenced the ceremony.
Betsy felt the hand suddenly dropped, which had been all this time held against the throbbing heart of some one, whose laboured breathing she had distinguished close to her; not by sounds, those were apparently suppressed, but she had felt each warm sigh steal over that side of her neck and cheek. A moment after her hand had been dropped, she heard a slight movement among some loose stones at a little distance. The darkness was such, that she could not see any of the figures present.
David gave away his daughter: the ceremony was concluded, and they all began to make the best of their rugged way homeward. With much ado they got from among tombstones, and fragments of ruins. They passed the stile at the gate, even the bridge, and Betsy could see no traces of any one; but it was still very dark. At length they arrived at David Park’s door; it was opened, and a strong stream of light, pouring from it, crossed the street. David, the clergyman, and a friend of David’s, who had been taken as a witness, went in.
The bride and bridegroom, happening to be a little behind the rest, were following, when, just as Betsy put her foot on the threshold, she heard in the direction of the bridge a plunge, which, though distant, was distinct, from the perfect stillness of the night. She staggered back a few paces, drawing Henry with her.
“Oh, run! run!” she cried, pointing to the bridge, which was in a straight line from where they stood, so that any one who had been upon it might have seen the light of David’s open door, and the figures entering.
“Run where?” asked Henry.
“Yonder! yonder! Didna ye hear yon? I’s amaist sure its John, gane o’ur the brig for love o’ me!”
“And